Guard Duty
by betawho
Summary: What would it be like to be a guard at Stormcage, guarding River Song?


He walked by the cell on his rounds, down the deserted corridor, in this otherwise deserted block. There was only one prisoner.

And there she was, sitting in her cell, surrounded by books and tomes, taking handwritten notes on a tablet of paper. There weren't many people who could do that anymore. She looked up briefly and smiled at him. "Jeremy," she acknowledged.

"Dr. Song."

He didn't realize he'd given her the honorific. There were plenty of other "professionals" among the prisoners of Stormcage. Many very very smart people. And the books and tomes were no surprise, Stormcage had a humanitarian policy, and reading and study materials were available to all. The prison library would even send out for specific works. Many of the prisoners published papers and treatise from their cells.

But none of them warranted the honorific. No matter how many letters they had after their name.

But none of them were Dr. Song. And frankly, none of them were as pretty either. He grinned to himself and kept on about his rounds. She didn't look like a prisoner. Truth was, she didn't act like a prisoner either.

Oh, she had the routine down. She'd been here for years. But there was always something elegant, almost regal about her, without being snooty. She was less like royalty, and more like a royal bodyguard. Elegant, regal, approachable, but deadly.

He'd never seen her attack a guard. But he'd seen her deal with a few other prisoners. Mostly ones who mistook her quiet manner for weakness. They learned quickly.

She was ruthlessly efficient. Generally she'd taken care of things before the guards could even register or react. And she never gave them any trouble. At least, not if they didn't give her some.

That was rather a standing rule at Stormcage. At least for the guards assigned to this block. Don't bother Dr. Song, and she won't bother you.

Newbies naturally had to learn for themselves. And no one could ever prove that the lye in the new guy's shampoo, or the bleach in his soap, or the unfortunate picture showing up on his social network page, were ever her fault.

But they learned.

—

He strolled past her cell again. There was the same circle of books and tomes.

It wasn't until several steps beyond that he realized...

He sprinted back, and quickly scanned the cell.

No Dr. Song.

Damn.

Not again.

He stopped, turned around and walked away. Continuing his rounds. It was far from standard procedure, but it had become self-preservation habit for any long term guard in this sector.

As he rounded the curve back toward her cell, he refused to acknowledge the tension in his shoulders.

And there she was, wearing a black evening gown, her hair mussed, and her lipstick slightly smudged. Everyone in Stormcage knew about the lipstick. He touched his lips and checked his fingers, just in case. He was clean. He let out a relieved breath.

"Good evening, Jeremy," she said, her voice a melodious sing-song, dreamily waltzing a few steps in the confines of her cell. She did have a wonderful voice, rumor said her real name was Melody.

"Good evening, ma'am." He said respectfully, as he jerked on her cell doors to check it.

Locked. As always.

No one could figure out how she did it. They'd installed every known form of surveillance and anti-escape measure known to man, and several that weren't.

But it kept happening.

It was like the dress. No one knew where she got the dresses, or the other outfits. And no one knew where they went when she took them off. Early attempts to confiscate them had led to more trouble than it was worth. And they just disappeared from the evidence rooms the next day anyway.

—

He continued on his rounds. His rounds actually included one of the other occupied cell blocks, the normal chatter, catcalls, and banging on cell bars actually steadied him. He shouldered his rifle and stood a little straighter. His shoulders firmed.

His next round through the abandoned block found him halting in horror, as he saw Dr. Song outside her cell. He froze in the shadow of the curve, his heart stuttered. She was loose!

But she was dressed all in beige khaki camouflage fatigues, looking dusty and tired, and she was actually going _into _her cell.

Being a man with a healthy dose of self-preservation (and a small animal's instinct not to move when a predator was near) he froze, and just watched as she opened her cell, stepped in, and closed it behind her.

He stopped hyperventilating, and gave it a few minutes. Once his hands stopped sweating, he shouldered his rifle (damn, he'd completely forgotten he was armed!) and forced himself to stride out confidently toward her cell.

She was plopped on her cell cot, wearing her normal prison uniform, the camouflage fatigues nowhere to be seen, but a thin dusting of beige dust still evident on her skin. He tested the door, as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Hello, Jeremy," she said in a tired voice, her eyes covered by one casually flung forearm. "How long until shower rotation?" she asked.

"It's at 0200, ma'am."

"What time is it now?"

He'd gotten used to questions like that. "Nearly 1200," he answered, stepping away from the bars.

"Good, lunch then a bath," she said wearily, not moving. "You're off shift soon, aren't you? Ask Connor if he can bump me up in line to when there's still some hot water."

She rolled over, and apparently went to sleep.

He swallowed his heart down out of his throat and made a mental note to pass the request on.

—

His next passage through the abandoned cell block started with a horrible wheezing, groaning sound. He sprinted for the one occupied cell, gun at the ready, the horrible sound fading and rising, grating across the back of his neck.

He planted himself in front of her cell and aimed. Scanning for trouble.

Dr. Song was sitting on her cot, sporting a distinct tan and a pair of ragged cutoff jeans, barefoot. She looked extremely relaxed and content, like she'd just come back off holiday. She was squeezing a horrible sounding accordion instrument that must have come straight out of a museum.

The sound was awful. She repositioned her fingers on the buttons and tried again. The sound was even worse. He gritted his teeth and winced.

She looked up and laughed at the expression on his face. "I know, it's horrible. I've been trying to master it for days. I thought I could serenade him for our anniversary, pay him back for... Well, never mind." She gave one more horribly raucous squeeze, then grimaced herself.

"Obviously this isn't going to work, I'll have to think of something else. But, here..." she shrugged out of the harness that had been holding the instrument to her shoulders. She gave it an almighty squeeze, making it sound like a dying whale. Then stood up and slipped it through the bars, skinning the varnish on the bars.

His rifle drooped in disbelief.

"Here," she said, giving a last screeching shove that rammed it through the bars and popped off one of the buttons. "I can tell him you confiscated it. No way am I letting him get his hands on it."

He didn't ask who "he" was. She'd made reference to a mysterious "him" on several occasions, all the guards had remarked on it. But no one had ever dared ask. She never had any visitors, other than official ones from the church or administration.

The instrument stayed wedged between the bars, halfway up, like some ancient mechanical display screen. "Please, take it away." She waved negligently at it and went and threw herself back down on her cot. She pulled out the basket underneath and pulled out a half-finished scarf and started knitting.

That was one of the oddest things about her. Every once in a while, she'd just decide to knit. Not that anyone would allow her knitting needles. She used her fingers. And she always made the scarves too long.

But they were warm. All the guards had one.

He sighed when she ignored him. And went to call the bomb squad to deal with the instrument.

—

His next pass through the raucous occupied cell block was actually a relief. Anatomically improbable insults, screams and cell fights were a positive panacea after the hassle of the bomb squad taking an hour to scan and analyze the instrument, carefully unwedge it, chemically test it for explosives or incendiaries, monitor it for electromagnetic signals, and finally look it up on the historical database.

Apparently it was something called an accordion. And it, despite the scratches and popped button, would have been worth a fortune on the black market. He'd heard more than one of the techs sigh. They could have gained a hefty profit listing it on ibay. But, like all the other artifacts, it would be cataloged and go in the warehouse. They really ought to start a museum. It was filled with everything, except clothes. (She had a thing about clothes.)

On his next pass by her cell everything was blessedly quiet. She was sleeping with the blankets pulled up over her head.

He walked on past silently, so as not to wake her.

Four steps past the cell he stopped. Frowned. And went back. He studied the cell again. There were no strange artifacts. No unexplained colorful high heels. No odd smells or sounds. Just her sleeping in her cot. He peered around again, suspiciously. He yanked on the cell door with a clang. It was locked.

He narrowed his eyes. But when nothing happened, he shrugged and continued on, everybody had to sleep sometime. He was getting too suspicious.

He was four steps past the curve when it hit him. She hadn't been breathing.

With a curse, he spun and ran back to her cell. He skidded to a stop and stared at the lump of her in her cot. He counted.

No movement. She wasn't breathing.

Suicides among life prisoners weren't uncommon. And going to bed with the sheets pulled over their head, to avoid the surveillance cameras, was a standard tactic.

He hadn't even thought about it. She was always so full of life and good humor that it never even occurred to him.

Cursing, he fumbled with the magnetic lock and slammed the cell door open. He rushed into the cell, but kept his gun aimed, it also wasn't unusual for prisoners to jump guards after feigning illness.

"Doctor Song?" he said. No answer, no movement. "Doctor Song!" Surprised to find himself concerned, he jammed the barrel of his rifle in the top of her blanket and flipped it aside.

Pillows.

For a minute his vision went black, then fiery red.

PILLOWS!

**_DAMN!_**

Sometimes she just _had _to taunt them.

He ran out of the cell and slammed his hand on the red alert button on the far wall. The red was virtually worn off by now.

Sirens blared. Doors slammed with lockdown procedures, warning lights flashed, and a squad of heavy boots and yells reverberated up the abandoned cell block.

It wasn't an unusual cacophony.

Damn he'd be happy when his shift was over.

—

* * *

For more stories by this author click on "betawho" at the top of the page.

Please take a moment to leave a review. Thank you.


End file.
